


Your Little Secret

by S_Faith



Series: My Own Little Sub-Universe [13]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-06
Updated: 2009-09-06
Packaged: 2019-11-24 01:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18159392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: What Tom believes to be just another night out turns out to be anything but.





	Your Little Secret

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking a long time about putting Tom and Peter together, despite how things must be in the future for them. Thank you to Melissa E. for the title inspiration.  
>    This is my very first attempt EVER at m/m (otherwise known as slash). Be gentle with me.  
>    If the idea of a man sleeping with another man is _not_ your thing, then please, **don't continue to read this**. You are entitled to your opinion regardless of how much I might disagree with it, but I will not brook any negative comments about m/m is when you have been amply warned. I _will_ delete any such comments.
> 
> Disclaimer: Tom is not mine. This Peter is more or less mine. The BJD universe is not mine, though this subdivision of it is.

It is all very tedious: the preening, the prancing, the posing, the joking, all the while sizing up men to see which might be the one you'd be leaving with. Lately the pickings have been slim: either not meeting your attractiveness standards; attractive but tried and found to be damaged goods; friends or exes of friends you wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole. The thrum of the music, the smoky atmosphere and the dancing only served to disguise the fact that this is all little better than a meat market. You seriously think that if there were some other option for meeting men that didn't involve religion or a political cause of the week, you'd hop on it like mad.

Going to the nightclub it would have to be.

You've been dancing all night and you're actually a little bone weary and can feel a headache starting to build behind your eyes, so you slip away from your mates with the excuse that you're going to have a fag in the alley in the cool night air. Your unattached female friends (all of them straight) think you have it so easy, bouncing lightly from man to man without complications, but you do your best to make sure they continue to think it's that way. They don't need to know you're flailing just as much as they are.

You pull out a ciggie and flick open your lighter, lean against the brick wall of the alley, and take in a deep, calming drag. The absence of sound pounds in your ears almost as hard as the music did, and you're not sure your headache is better or worse for it. You exhale your lungful of smoke, stretch it out as long as you can. In an effort to make the headache retreat, you push your thumb and forefinger into the corners of your eyes, and wonder if this manoeuver has ever helped a headache go away, ever.

"Tom?"

You look up, momentarily disoriented by the light level and the fact that your vision has been distorted by the pressure of your fingertips, not to mention that you're mostly pissed. It thus takes you a moment to figure out who it is that's just said your name. You blink a few times trying to clear your eyes, but you still can't believe who you're seeing: your friend's husband's brother, who is as attractive as he is and plays for the same team you do. At least mostly.

"Hey," you say, momentarily completely blanking on his name. "Nice to see you."

He scrutinises you with those unbelievably piercing blue eyes, another of the subtle differences between his brother Mark and him. "You don't remember me."

"Of course I do," you say, overcompensating a little. "Peter." You say it as quickly as it has popped into your head. You're proud to have retrieved it through the fog.

He grins, clearly relaxing at last. "I thought that was you, but with the noise and the people… it was hard to tell for sure."

"Didn't know you came here," you say.

Peter shrugs. "Came here more frequently years ago—" Before, you recall, his stint abroad, medical services for world-wide relief efforts. "—and thought I'd give it a go, you know, try to—" He pauses, seemingly to consider his words. "—well, meet people, but it seems things changed a bit since that time. Can't hear myself think now in there."

"Thought it's always been loud in there," you say. "Maybe you're just getting too old for it."

At this Peter laughs, and it's genuine and true. "Yeah," he says in agreement. "Think maybe I am." He shifts his weight from one foot to another, and he's regarding you with an odd intensity. "It's good to see you though. _Really_ good."

"It's good to see you too," you say, just as you realise where you know that look from: it's the same look Peter's brother gives to his wife just before they bounce off and disappear for hours before returning as smug as a cat having eaten the canary. You wonder if it is possible that he fancies you after fewer than a handful of meetings. God knows you fancy him, despite—or perhaps because of—the resemblance to his brother. "Want a smoke?"

"No," he says. "Those things'll kill you." He's grinning as he says it, so you know he's teasing.

You finish up the ciggie and stub the butt out on the brick wall, then look up to meet Peter's eyes again; you're unsure how to proceed. Peter is between you and the door, but even if the way were clear, he's looking at you in such a way that you feel rooted to the spot. More than that, though: Peter is Mark's brother and Mark's married to one of your best friends. Peter is therefore practically family. 

"Heading back inside?" you ask at last, feeling pretty stupid.

"Maybe in a bit," he says, taking a step towards you, then another, shocking you with his boldness; it was months before Mark had made a move on his now-wife, and you thought maybe such behaviour was congenital. It's not like you mind his being this close, though.

His nose is a hair's-breadth from you now, so close his breath flits warmly over your skin, and you feel your pulse starting to race. His eyes are challenging you, and you desperately want to accept that challenge. Being seduced by this tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed doctor was not what you had predicted for tonight. You don't mind unpredictable, either.

Smelling faintly of a mixture of scotch and a spicy but fading cologne, his lips touch to yours, and it shocks you yet again, but not so much you want to refuse or push him off of you. Utterly receptive, you kiss him back, and with this encouragement he completely claims your mouth, kissing you roughly, pushing you up against the brick wall, pressing himself into you. His kiss is exquisite, and the pressure of his body against you, particularly where the front of his denims meet yours, is immediately arousing.

His hands are on your hips, his legs between yours and as he grinds himself against you he breaks the kiss and makes an infinitely sexy sound low in his throat. "Wrong," he manages, breathing heavily. "This is, I mean." You wonder if it's possible he's also thinking the same thing you were, that you're practically related, but then he adds, "Back-alley snogging against brick walls… I'm definitely too old for this."

You laugh. "Not too fucking old," you declare. He kisses you again and you match his ferocity, granting permission to his unspoken query to go further. His hand moves between you, and he closes it over the bulge in your pants. It's your turn to moan.

"Bloody sexy," he says, his voice so close to his brother's that it's a little unnerving. "Attracted to you when I first saw you. Don't want anything more than this, though," he says, setting the stage for expectations: this is not the first strains of a Relationship-with-a-capital-R. This is a logical conclusion to a mutual attraction, at least for the two of you. At least for now. But there's no point in thinking of long term when his fingers are working into you; even through your jeans you could easily come.

"You talk too fucking much," you manage, eliciting a low, seductive laugh from him.

He puts one hand on the wall behind you, moves his feet so your legs are now between his, then moves the other hand to the waist of your jeans, flipping open the button, sliding it down and reaching in. _Jesus_ , you think, twitching with the feel of those silky smooth doctor's fingers against you, their knowledge of anatomy all too evident with the perfect pressure he applies as he strokes and fondles you. As if that were not enough, he kisses you once more, burying his face into your neck, his teeth sharp and insistent on your earlobe then throat; you're not wondering if Mark's teeth are as sharp or as insistent, but you're not surprised, not when you're putty in his brother's hands.

You hear a quiet chuckle in your ear; you blink then focus your eyes on his very close blue ones that are picking up stray light from somewhere. "Would very much like to," he growls, "but not here."

"What?"

"Not dark or secluded enough," he goes on, his voice slightly more teasing. "Wouldn't want to embarrass Mark by having to defend me for a public lewdness charge."

You wonder how his having his hand in your pants and working to get you off isn't public lewdness already, but your failure to comprehend is a bigger concern so you ask "What?" again.

He laughs again, and it's softer, lighter. "To fuck you like you were just begging me to."

Even as you say it you realise you don't offer a denial that you were begging any such thing: "Is your flat nearby?" It occurs to you that you sound too eager, but hell. You are. You haven't had a good shag in weeks—possibly even months—and this is pretty much verging on a fantasy you never thought could come true.

"Mmm," he says in return, and you aren't certain it's a yes or a no until he retreats his hand from your jeans, takes you around the back of the neck, and roughly pulls you into another kiss. "Close enough."

You have this vague memory of a minicab ride to a posh flat on Canary Wharf, a lift ride where you can barely keep your hands off of one another, then falling through his door after unlocking it, picking up where the two of you left off in the alley, except this time, you're tearing at each others' clothing; buttons are flying and a trail of shirts, jeans, smalls, etc. is dropped to the bedroom. You stop at the bedroom door; the room is sparsely decorated, very Mark-like (or so you've been told), but it could be that he just hasn't lived here very long. He's suddenly behind you, pushes you through the threshold, then taking your hips in his strong hands and nipping at the bare skin of your shoulder. You feel him hard against you, the rough thatch of hair brushing on the back of your leg. You're already harder than a rock, not that you ever lost the hardness you gained in the alley; the minicab driver must have known precisely what the two of you were off to do.

"Wanted to do this the first time I saw you," he murmurs into your ear. "Haven't had a shag since getting back to England. Was hoping you'd be the one to break my dry spell." His hands are suddenly up between your legs; your knees practically buckle as he brushes his fingers along your arse.

"Fuck," you gasp as his hand snakes around to your front, and with lethal precision he's got you in hand, stroking. You hope like hell he's got johnnies and some lube because you want nothing more than to feel him push into you.

"Which way?" he grunts, his very erect member rubbing against your thigh. "Facing me, or not?"

Peter's a fucking mind-reader, you decide. You could really go either way, but since you have no idea if this will ever happen again, you want to be looking at him the moment he comes in you. Instead of answering with words, you turn around, grab the back of his neck like he did to you in the alley, and drive your tongue into his mouth as you buck your hips into his. He's remarkably clean-shaven for this time of the night; your own five o'clock shadow must be rubbing his face raw. Not that he seems to care.

You hear him mutter a _Fuck_ of his own as his hands grab your arse. You chuckle as you realise it's great fun making a Darcy lose his composure, not that Peter's half as reserved as his brother is. You're realising there are a lot of differences between these two siblings, more than you would have ever otherwise guessed. You decide immediately that Mark would never, ever be so direct or forward as to spontaneously approach a potential lover in a nightclub, take them to an alley and feel them up. Not even Bridget when he wasn't with her yet.

He walks you backwards to the double bed, his blunt fingernails grazing your skin. You feel the mattress against the backs of your thighs, feel his legs between yours as you sink to sit then lie back upon the bed. He leans over you, thrusting tenaciously against you as he kisses you, you rubbing on his abdomen, him rubbing on yours, and you wonder if you will be able to keep yourself from losing it, because you can feel that building sensation of culmination starting already. You groan painfully, hoping he doesn't plan on forgoing johnnies, lube, and so on—because as good as this feels and as much as you want Peter to fuck you out of your wits, you've been doing this long enough to know it's stupid not to use protection—and are about to grunt out a protestation when Peter pauses, pulls himself away from you, then reaches for his nightstand. Both items are apparently present, as he has a bottle of Astroglide in one hand, a handful of condom squares in the other. Even as you raise a brow at the fact that he grabbed a handful, you think maybe, somehow, he's been planning this—maybe he's been watching you at the club the last few weekends, working up the courage to come on to you. Maybe he's more like Mark than you thought.

He turns back to you at last, and you finally get to see him in all of his glory. You can't help but have a fleeting thought about genetics as your eyes fix on the proverbial family jewels, with which Peter has been endowed a most generous share. You look up again; the raw lust you feel must be evident on your face, because he doesn't waste time with letting you roll the condom on. He opens the packet and does it himself.

With you prostrate on the bed, knees high in the air and your gaze locked to his unnervingly explicit one, he then squeezes out a generous portion of the lube onto his fingers, then works it in with his thumb before running it over his condom-sheathed erection. A second generous squirt and he's on the bed again; the coolness of the slick gel makes you simultaneously gasp and mutter _fuck_ again, because those smooth, slender fingers are working themselves over your firmness, then down and over your arse, the tip of his finger traversing into you fleetingly. "Fuck," you say again; you seem to have lost your ability to speak the English language. It's all right. You forgot for a moment that Peter can read your mind.

You buck up a little as he teases you with his lubed finger. "So fucking lovely," he says more to himself than to you, again spookily in a voice near to his brother's, but that's not what's got you on the verge of coming; it's somehow become something far more than a crush on the unavailable-to-you boyfriend of your straight girlfriend. You know in that moment that they will from now on forever separated in your mind. There is nothing Mark can ever do or say that could override what's happening right now. "Mm," he says, focusing on you again. "You like that."

Rather understating the obvious, you think, as you moan under his ministrations. 

"Can't wait to feel you around me," he says, taking his hand away. "Can't wait anymore." He shifts, has his hands on your arse to lift you as you feel the head of his impatient cock nudging against you. You cry out for the old standard deities. With a firm push, he's inside you.

You both moan as he captures your mouth again with a kiss; his teeth are grazing your lips, his mouth, rougher than ever. There is no shortage of guttural groans on either side as he thrusts into you to the hilt, making you cry out as he hits that spot, that sweet spot, again and again. Your own impatient cock is pressed between your bodies and between the feel of him on the inside, the friction on the outside, and the thought of you grinding yourself up into his abdomen, it's enough to bring on that climax sooner rather than later. Weeks of pent-up sexual frustration are released in that moment and as you're coming, you can only think that you absolutely positively must do this again, preferably with you in the giving role.

Peter hasn't come yet, but he's close, this much you know; you can feel it in the way he's trembling all over, and you can see it on his face. Strangely it thrills you to know this is for you, that he chose you, that he wanted you, that you have turned him into this wildly rutting animal. In those moments after you're spent, you offer half-coherent utterances of encouragement and try to up the force with which you buck into him. His own groans become even less understandable, his motion more unfocused, until at last, with a final thrust forward, you feel his orgasm as acutely as if it were your own.

With a strangled cry, he falls to his side to lie on the bed, bringing you with him. You realise as you reach for him that his hair, his skin, is sweat-soaked, as is your own; your muscles are tingling with the exertion, but even still, as you brush your fingers along his pale skin, you feel the urge building to fuck him in return.

"God, that was good," he says between breaths. Your fingers trace over his stomach and reach for his hip, firm as stone. He's in amazing shape.

"Mmm," you reply. Your tongue is pretty thick in your mouth and your words slur a little as you speak. "Talk about fucking lovely."

You hear that subdued laugh again, the one that hits you low in the gut and amps up the lust anew. He withdraws from you but only to turn over, almost as if he's offering his firm, pert little arse up to you for the taking. You can't help but admire the taut lines of his back, and you have to touch him; you run the flat of your hand over his skin. He's really a beautiful specimen of humanity.

"Don't tempt me," you respond, as if replying to said offer even as you cup his arse in your palm.

"Why not?" he asks in a sultry voice. "Turnabout is fair play."

"It's not like that didn't get me off," you say, even as you think, _Are you trying to talk him out of it? Are you mad?_

"I want you to," he says plainly. " _Need_ you to. And you're not getting off that easily."

The thing with shagging a clever man is that you're never sure when he is trying to be clever, or if in a situation like this he's just too lust-addled to realise he's been clever. You decide not to laugh in case it's the latter. Instead you crawl around to kneel between his legs, your hands seemingly fixated on his arse before you reach for a condom of your own as well as the lube.

You decide to get everything ready to go because you're pretty sure that once you start you won't want to pause for the bureaucracy. He looks tense waiting for your touch, and when you lean forward and touch him on the curve of his arse again, he actually jumps a little. "Sorry," he breathes.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he says. "Been a while."

Since he's been the bottom, you add mentally. "If you don't want to," you start to say, but he cuts you off.

"I do."

You warm up the lube on your fingers before you reach and touch yourself, then him. He makes a sound that's too close to a cringe for your comfort. "You don't sound like you do."

"Dammit, Tom, just do it," he commands, his voice serious yet sensual. He could have asked you to jump off the roof and you might have acquiesced.

You lean forward and run your tongue on his back between his shoulder blades as you work your fingers over where you're anxious to drive into him. He pushes his pelvis forward into the mattress in reflex. You kind of wish you were bending him over the edge of a table so you could also get him off with your hand… and you realise it's not too late for that. "Move back," you say, your free hand on his hip, tugging him towards the edge of the bed. He gets it, and pushes himself backwards. The second you've got access to him you reach around and grab him, tugging hard enough to make him gasp again, the slick lube allowing your palm to glide right over him, but still giving you the friction to make it feel good. You urge his legs farther apart, then with a grunt you push forward up into him and _God_ he feels good around you.

Instinct kicks in and as you thrust again, slowly working your way into the hilt, your hand pumps him. You watch his fingers turn white with the pressure he's putting on the bed sheets, watch him arch his head back, eyes closed, features locked in concentration. You put your arm around his neck as far as you're able, your mouth on his shoulder and you bite gently as you continue that ever-increasing pace, driving your hips forward in counterpoint to your hand. He makes a strangled sound, almost leaning back onto your shoulder, arms trembling with the force of holding himself up and into you.

He starts to moan, and it's world-class, sex-fuelled moaning, so low and throaty you can feel it vibrating on his skin, driving you even wilder as you give it to him harder and faster. He cries out. You feel him come, feel it meld with the lube on your hand, and for some odd reason this is the thing that sends you straight off the edge and you come yourself. You're heaving for air, your mouth suddenly drier than the Sahara, but that's a small price to pay. You didn't think that anything could have topped that first fuck, but this somehow managed to do just that. 

There's silence for a really long time as your collectively tense muscles soften with fatigue, as you crawl up onto the bed together, settle onto the pillows and under the sheets. Here's where it goes from nightclub quickie to afterglow cuddling, with you spooned up to his back, your arm around him, holding him to you. You barely have time to think how bizarre this is before you're sliding off into sleep, his distinct scent pleasantly filling your senses as you do.

………

In the morning you wake with that utterly disconcerting feeling of having no idea where you are, until you remember: _Peter. Nightclub. Amazing shag._ You're alone now, though. You furrow your brow and call out his name. No one replies.

You push back the sheets—only now can you appreciate the high thread count, the softness of the nap—and get to your feet. Your legs are plagued with a vague ache as you pad out of the room, and you hope like hell that Peter does not have a flatmate. You say his name again. Still no answer.

It's then that you see a piece of paper and a pen on the table. The paper's got writing on it. You've seen Mark's handwriting, and his is nothing like that: smooth and flowing and pretty damned curvy for a man's penmanship. It's addressed to you. 

'Tom—had to go to work. Please avail yourself of anything you need before you head home. I apologise for coming on so strongly last night. Was a little pissed, my inhibitions were down—but no regrets. I completely enjoyed myself. Let's keep this between us, though. No need to get my sister-in-law worked into a frenzy.'

_Interesting choice of words_ , you think as you chuckle.

'Let's do it again sometime, hm?—P.'

You smirk in a very smug way. Subtly he's saying he'd rather like to make a habit of shagging you. _Yes_ , you think. _Let's._

………

Your friend stares at you with a grin. "You cannot tell me you didn't go home with someone last night," she says. Peter's sister-in-law. One of your best friends in all the world. "You've got that bloody 'I got off with a hot boy' look about you."

Under ordinary circumstances, you would have spilled all the details to her about the best lay you've ever had, but something compels you to keep mum and abide by Peter's wishes. She knows you all too well, though, and you know you can't lie and say you had no sex at all. So for now, a tiny bending of the truth is in order. "I did," you admit, "but I never got his name. Just a little boy toy. Don't expect I'll see him again."

The smile is sustained, though her eyes get a melancholy edge to them. "Someday, Tom, you'll find someone nice whose name you'll want to remember."

You can only think you're unlikely ever to forget Peter's name again.

………

It's the following weekend, the same club as the last, and you've got a few drinks in you already when your eyes meet Peter's across the room. You smile, feeling immediately sober. He'd phoned you during the week to tell you not to change your habits, that he'd find you, that he rather liked the thrill of pretending you're someone he's picking up in a bar, unplanned and spontaneous. You admitted that you liked it too. He'd also hinted at wanting to forgo the johnnies by mentioning updating all of his testing. You'd followed his lead. Came back clean across the board.

After an eternity of that unblinking gaze, his eyes flit to the door before he heads out, a hint if ever you've seen one. You make an excuse to Gav and Elsie, and you leave too.

He's got a minicab waiting. So much for unplanned and spontaneous. You both climb into the back seat. In the camouflage of the darkness you find your fingers moving over the denim on the front of his jeans. He casts a smoky look in your direction as he places his hand over yours and presses down.

"Everything all taken care of?" you ask, hoping he understands what you're asking.

"Mm-hm," he affirms. "All the details ironed out. Safety net no longer needed."

A thrill races through you. You have to admit you've been thinking about what it would be like to use your lips and tongue on him. 

"How about you?" he asks in that same roundabout manner.

"Passed with flying colours," you respond.

You see the corner of his mouth curl up in a smile, then he draws his lower lip between his teeth. When he speaks again, his voice is a bit gravelly. "Glad to hear it."

You don't exactly run to his flat door, but the impatience is palpable as he turns the key, that and you've got your hand flat on his arse again, fingers curling into the crease of the denim. The door pops open just in time and you both practically fall into the hallway of the flat. He turns and presses you against the wall, his mouth hungry on yours, your fingers tangling in his hair. He leans forward, his thigh pinning your crotch to the wall, making the firmness pleasantly painful. You break away with a noise conveying that. He laughs lightly.

"Been a rough week," he says. "Couldn't wait to get to tonight. To pick you up and bring you home."

"What you said in the minicab—" you begin, anxious to know whether you had understood correctly.

"Yes," he says firmly. "Clean. Have the papers to prove it."

You chuckle; of course he does, bloody doctor. "So do I," you say, thinking of the folded paper in your pocket.

His blue eyes soften a bit. "I trust you," he whispers before he kisses you again. It's not rough so much as languorous, teasing your lips and tongue with his own even as he leans rhythmically into you. "Let's pretend," he begins after breaking for air, his breath steaming on your ear, "we're in the alley."

It's dark in the hallway save for a nightlight at the end, so it's not hard to pretend he's pressing you up against bricks behind the bar in the cool of the evening. "Yes," you concur. The word's barely out of your mouth before he's backing up just far enough to undo your jeans. He opens the front so he can take you in his hand. You are aching in more ways than one for whatever it is he has in mind.

When he drops to his knees, takes your jeaned arse in his hands, you know exactly what he has in mind; his hot, wet mouth is on you and you twitch forward without conscious thought. You can feel his chin on your thigh every time he lunges forward. Quite the powerful mouth and lips, this one, and quite the dextrous tongue; pretty soon you've got your fingers in his hair again, and you're thrusting into him. Pretty soon after that, you're coming, and you find out that Peter holds on to the bitter end before letting you go. 

He gets to his feet with a satisfied smirk, pressing you up against the wall again. Before he can kiss you, you grab the front of his jeans. "My turn," you murmur before you fall to your knees.

……….

He's gone when you wake again, damn that weekend shift he can't get out of. He's left you another note, as if it were necessary after telling you he had to get up to go as he started drifting off to sleep in your arms.

'Tom— _Mi casa es tu casa_ , and all that. See you again soon.—P.'

It's not the first time you've awakened to an empty bed and a note—by someone other than Peter, you clarify to yourself—but something tells you if he hadn't needed to work, he might have brought you breakfast. He's just that sort of guy, good breeding and all that. As it is, he's left you coffee and a pastry, which is pretty much the same thing.

You take a quick shower—you love immersing yourself in your lover's soap, shampoo, aftershave after a good shag, like taking a part of him away with you—and dress, then suck down the coffee and croissant before leaving the flat. You take the lift down, reflecting on the groping that happened within these very walls, but you're startled back to reality when the lift doors open, and are thankful that Peter had some hair product you availed yourself of:

It's Mark. Peter's brother. And he looks equally surprised to see you.

"Tom?" he asks.

"Hi Mark," you reply quickly, your mind racing to think of an excuse of why you'd be in Peter's building, one that did not involve confessing to the repeated shagging of this man's sibling. "Was, uh, just in the neighbourhood. I remembered Peter saying he had a CD I could borrow. I came by for it. He's not here though."

"How'd you get in the building?" Damn that Darcy brain, sharp as a tack.

"Front door was open," you lie wildly.

Mark seems to buy the story. "That's too bad," he says. "Was going to see about his coming out for lunch with me."

Your hand closes around the note in your jacket pocket; your heart is hammering in your chest because all you can think of is, what if Mark had come an hour sooner? "Yeah," you say with convincing nonchalance. "Too bad. Well, Mark, I'll see you 'round."

He offers a smile, and you think for a moment how like Peter's smile it is. "See you."

………

Like most weekends, you still have lunch with your best girlfriends, straight women you love because they look upon you like one of the girls without any of the sexual tension of your male friends, most of whom you've slept with. This Sunday's no different. You decide to go for the Moroccan place because you've been dying for their tagine. You're not the first to arrive, you never are, but neither are you the last.

Jude and Sharon—Shazzer, Shazzie, or Shaz, depending on your or her mood—are already there.

"You met someone," declares Sharon. "You're fucking walking on air."

You hadn't thought you were, but perhaps those weeks without a shag had turned you into a coiled spring and you hadn't realised it, but they had. As with Bridget, they know you too well for you to be able to offer a flat-out denial of sex. "Maybe."

The two women look at each other then at you with sheer incredulity. "Tom's not kissing and telling?" bursts out Jude. "This is a first. Or…" She pauses, apparently mentally bracing herself for the answer to her question. "Are you back with Jerome?"

"I'm not back with Jerome." You wonder how far you can push it before they beg for details you can't give, and decide that since they're not going to let up, you may as well throw them a bone. "It's someone I just met," you fabricate, "and there's nothing yet to tell."

"You're a fucking liar," says Sharon. You panic until she adds, "There's always something to tell. With gay men, instead of coffee and a movie, you run off for a shag. Don't deny it." She points her cigarette at you.

"I'm not going to deny it," you say, "but they say discretion is the better part of valour."

At this the two of them laugh as if they've heard the funniest joke they've ever heard in their lives. "Tom, seriously, are you ill?" asks Shaz. "Because if there were someone new, you'd be bragging about it to everyone in your address book, possibly while still in bed shagging him on a marathon shag weekend." She's giggling and as she talks, Jude giggles too.

You hate that your friends know you this well. "Maybe I'm growing and maturing." As you say it, it sounds lame even to your own ears.

Jude snorts again. "That's rich," she says. "Tell us, or we'll torture you with—"

They go on, but you don't hear, because the last of your group's arrived with an unexpected guest. It's Bridget. She's brought Peter.

"Hi," she says in greeting, pulling up another chair for Peter, pushing it in next to where she's sitting, which happens to be directly across from you. "Hope it's okay. I didn't think you'd mind his joining us."

"Of course we don't mind," says Jude, smiling genuinely. "Maybe you two can pry Tom's little secret out of him."

Imperceptibly, you see Peter's brow raise.

"Oh!" says Bridget. "Is this about your 'I didn't catch his name' stud last weekend? Did you get his name this weekend or something?"

You feel heat race across your skin and take a long drink of wine to cover it. When you look up again, you have Peter's undivided attention. "Please, do tell," he says, though you know better than to think he wants you to make any sort of announcement about the two of you. Rather, you get the feeling that he's taunting you not to say too much. You can't resist the challenge.

"I did catch his name," you say with equal challenge in your voice. "Dieter."

"Oooh," says Sharon. "Big strapping German bloke. I like the sound of that."

"Mmm," you say, playing into her mental image rather than dispelling it. "Big and strapping indeed. Broke my dry spell—" You intentionally use Peter's phrase. "—and broke it but good. Repeatedly." 

"It was that good, hm?" prods Shaz. She's always been eager for details from your affairs—her own are few and far between.

"Mmm. _Yes_ ," you respond. You decide to push the envelope just a little. "Practically shagged in the alley of the club the first night I met him. Hand down my trousers and everything. Nearly got me off right there. Took me home and we had _delicious_ crazed monkey sex."

You see Peter shift in his seat a little.

"Ugh, ugh," Bridget says with a grin, putting her hands over her ears playfully. "Too much information!"

"Definitely will be seeing him again if I have anything to say about it," you say, catching Peter's gaze briefly before he looks away. "Hope he agrees."

"If it keeps you this happy," says Shaz, "keep right on with the crazed monkey sex."

You realise that despite having to keep the thus-far weekly trysts secret, you _are_ happy, because Peter is not demanding, not a drama queen, not addled on ecstasy or doesn't have a drink problem, and is in fact the closest thing to a gentleman you've ever slept with.

"Oh, Peter," says Bridget unexpectedly. "Did Mark tell you he saw Tom in your building yesterday?"

Peter's eyes flash to her, then to you. They're worried. "No, he didn't."

You're quick to step in. "I was dropping by for that CD you were telling me about. The one I could borrow. But you weren't home."

Peter's a smart man. He catches on. "Oh, right. Well, if you're free, why not drop back with me to my flat and I'll give it to you?" More than catches on.

You try not to laugh. You like the subterfuge. "I'm free. I'd love to come."

Lunch proceeds without further incident and at the conclusion, as if on cue, you all rise to leave. 

"I drove Bridget and myself over," says Peter, looking dark, as if their secret assignation is about to fizzle before it even begins.

"That's okay," Jude says. "I can take her home. No sense in you zigzagging about town."

"Thanks," says Peter, relief evident.

You watch Bridget hug Peter, peck him on the cheek. "Glad you came with us today. You really seem to perk up a bit around people, especially today."

"Thanks for asking me. I really like your friends."

"We really like you too." You say it before you can think about it. He smiles.

The car ride's a little quiet, and you can't quite tell if it's because he's annoyed at you, or is just being thoughtful, so you keep quiet too. You go up to his flat. In the light of day, the ride in the lift is just a ride in the lift. You shove your hands in your pockets and follow him out and into his flat. You close the door behind you, turn and practically walk into him. He grasps your shoulders.

"That was very bad of you," he says in a throaty voice. As it turns out, he wasn't annoyed or thoughtful. He was just biding his time until you were alone.

"You loved it," you tease back.

He takes your mouth in a crushing kiss, rather confirming your declaration. 

When you can breathe again, you add as he assiduously attacks your throat with his mouth, "Didn't say anything that wasn't true."

"Glad for your CD white lie," he says, pressing you against the wall again. He's already hard. "No way I could have made it until next Friday night."

You thread your hands beneath the jacket he hasn't even had a chance to take off yet, find the bottom edge of his shirt and your fingers are up and under and on his hot skin. You don't say a word, but you're glad for the lie, too.

He pulls you away from the wall by your jean waistband, pulls you directly back into his bedroom and shuts the door. After the quickest strip-down in human history, he pushes you onto the mattress, completely dominating you, pinning you to the bed and fucking you senseless while getting you off with a hand between your bodies. You scream as you manage to come in time with him. You never scream.

"Jesus," you say breathlessly as he runs his tongue along your neck, lapping the sweat off of your skin as he twitches his hips again. You groan. He's still inside you.

"I'm flattered by the comparison," he says in a rough voice. You laugh as your arms encircle him, your nails raking on his back.

You both go silent in each others' arms, your cheek pressed to his, his breath on your neck. You reach up and stroke his hair; as you do, he tightens his arms ever so slightly. A few minutes after that, you feel him go slack, hear him snoring softly. You allow yourself to drift off to sleep too. After all, that was pretty exhausting.

………

When you wake, you're surprised he's still there. You've somehow moved into a spooning position, his back fitting neatly against your chest like a pair of puzzle pieces, your arm crossing his chest as you hold him to you. You realise you haven't woken with him yet. It alarms you to think how much you like it, how comfortable, how natural it feels for him to be there.

He stirs. You see him yawn, feel him stretch his arms forward.

"Hey," you say, right behind his ear.

"Hey," he says softly in reply.

"That was good."

After a moment, he says, "That was great."

You are, you realise, really good together, at least physically, and you really seem to get along. You realise too that you want to know him better. You want him to be a regular part of your life. You want him to tell his brother and sister-in-law. But you're getting ahead of yourself. "I do like you," you say, feeling brave. "I wasn't just saying that."

He's quiet again. "I know." After another pause, he says, "I like you too." He sighs.

"What is it?" you ask, though you aren't sure you really want to hear.

"I have to work tonight," he says after a moment. You don't really buy that this is all that's wrong, but you let it slide for now. You rest your cheek on his shoulder.

"I'll go, then."

"I was going to get a pizza," he says. "If you want some."

You chuckle. It's sort of like a date. You've gotten it all out of order. "Okay."

………

It seems unspoken now that you don't have to wait until Friday night, don't have to wait for a caught glance in the nightclub and skitter off like it's an illicit tryst. You simply show up when you say you will. You have a night of great sex, fall asleep in his arms after talking a little, and in the morning he's usually gone off to work, leaving you a little note, not like you need reminding that you can just make yourself at home. You don't usually linger, because you don't need Mark showing up unexpectedly, letting himself in.

…Though you like the nightclub-illicit-tryst scenario, too; you've tried several different clubs so as not to arouse suspicion. Elsie and Gav aren't the sharpest sticks in the fag, but even they would have caught on if you kept leaving with the same man every time.

This goes on for many weeks, stretches into months. It's the happiest you've been in a long time, even if you can only talk about it to your girlfriends under the guise of your German stud Dieter, whom they are worriedly dying to meet. If you thought about it too much, you'd realise you kind-of sort-of have a relationship with Peter. You try not to think about it too much.

"Tom." He rouses you from your philosophical dozing with your name, and he speaks in a tone that brings you to instant wakefulness. You turn over to face him. He's as serious as you've ever seen him.

"What is it?"

His blue eyes pierce into your soul. "I don't think I can see you anymore."

You're shocked to the core. You pop up, your elbow supporting you. "Why not?"

He does the same. "It's not you," he adds. "It's me. I have a problem."

Your mind swirls: has he been that secretive a drunk? Is he a gambler? You don't understand.

You don't have to prompt because he explains. "Not that kind of problem. A problem with… _associations_ without a finite end. Fixed term assignments made it easy to get into something where I knew I had an easy out."

"Do you want an easy out?" you ask.

"No," he says emphatically. "I just don't know how to handle it when I know it could go on indefinitely."

It's not the first time you've encountered this. "You're afraid of commitment?" you venture. "I'm not asking for—" 

A ring. A house. Adopted children or vacations in the country.

"I'm not explaining myself well," he says sadly. "I don't want to not see you. But the longer this continues… I'm feeling conflicted. Stressed. Freaking out." He chuckles nervously. "Just need a break from it."

You glance down, then turn over to lie on the pillow, your face turned away from him. You feel his hand on your back.

"I'm sorry."

He's sorry? You're sorry. Sorry you ever allowed yourself to be seduced into something you thought would be meaningless, or allowed yourself to give it meaning. 

"Tom."

You don't reply. You're embarrassed because you have tears in your eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

"You said that," you say gruffly.

You feel his lips on your shoulder. "I mean it." Despite being essentially chucked, his kiss zings you to the core. He speaks again, close to your ear. "How can I express to you how much I _want_ it to go on indefinitely? How much it kills me to not be able to get over that mental block? God knows I want to try. I just… _can't_ right now."

You take in a deep breath, then turn over. "Let me help you." You can't help yourself, evidently, because even though he's just broken your heart, you kiss him deeply and passionately, make torturously slow love to him, in the hopes that his desire to be with you overrides this weird block he has about there not being a set end date.

He's gone in the morning, as usual. He leaves you a note.

'I'm sorry. Still can't right now. I'll see you around, I promise.—P.'

It's pretty final. You weren't able to change his mind. You ball up the note and with angry tears hurl a blurry version of it across the flat.

………

Your girlfriends try to help your heartbreak, but since you can't really go into the details, there's only so much they can do. Their support is invaluable, though, and you're not sure how you would have gotten through it without the façade of Dieter.

You can't avoid seeing Peter at gatherings—Bonfire Night, Christmas, New Year's—because by this point, Mark and Peter really are part of the family. It's awkward and you barely talk beyond social niceties. Even being in close proximity to just Mark is painful, because his mannerisms and Peter's are terribly similar. Things have changed in that regard: at one time, looking at Peter made you think of Mark. Now looking at Mark makes you think of Peter.

Time goes by. You move on, or you at least try, with men—boys, really—who are far too young for you, far too dramatic or immature. They don't last, and you don't really talk about them with anyone but the girls. You do wonder if word gets back to Peter via Bridget. You hope a little that it does and it makes him jealous, because only in hindsight do you realise you loved the bastard.

Time heals wounds, too, and eventually you rebuild a friendship with Peter. To your knowledge he has no one new (not that he'd necessarily tell you), and you wonder if he's really trying to overcome his thing with open-ended associations (as he'd put it). You may be on good terms now, but you can't look at him without thinking of—

Well, you just hope some day he does get over that block.

_The end._


End file.
